Page 1 of Secrets & Spells
Chapter 1
Jared
Fired. My boss, who had been a father figure to me since I started working for The London Ledger fresh out of university, was firing me. Sorry, telling me totake a break.
“This could be a good thing, Jared.” Corbin tugs at the cuffs of his signature coal-black suit, the colour a stark contrast to his silver hair and paper-white skin. Never one to fidget, it’s a sure sign he’s more uncomfortable with this conversation than he’s letting on.Good. He should feel uncomfortable. He should feel downrightawfulfor forcing me out of my job without cause. “I’m worried about you and I’m not the only one. We’ve all noticed a… change since you returned to work.”
I feel my blonde brows rise towards my hairline. “Of course I’ve changed. Surely it would be more concerning if I hadn’t?”
Corbin shifts awkwardly in his fancy leather office chair before steepling his hands on the ornate mahogany desk before him, his piercing dark-brown eyes locking onto me with renewed determination. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Is this about my last article?” It must be. I was supposed to write a piece about how, after six months of nothing, London was starting to move on from the nightmare of the past three years.
“No. While not what I asked for, your piece on the families and friends of The Raven’s victims and their struggle to move on without justice for their loved ones was excellent, some of your best work even.”
“Then why are you getting rid of me?”
He sighs, weariness sinking into his bones making him look far older than his fifty years. “I’m not ‘getting rid’ of you Jared. Your job will still be here for you once you’ve taken the proper time to recover from your ordeal.” And there it is. The reason he can force me out of the job I love, the job I worked damn hard at and sacrificed for. Because it’s for my mental health, my emotional wellbeing. What a load of bullshit. How Corbin believes taking away my job, the most important thing in my life, is going to help me recover frommy ordealas he calls it, I have no clue. After three nights in the hospital, I went home to my one bedroom flat and did everything I was supposed to do. I rested. I recovered. I went to therapy. Then, after two months of waiting, I came back to work. My colleagues did their best not to stare, but I noticed their furtive glances and how the break room would go silent whenever I entered. If everyone is soconcerned,maybe they shouldn’t treat me like some kind of exhibition for their entertainment. Maybethey’rewhat’s detrimental to my mental health, not my job. Being a journalist is all I ever wanted.
“What if I don’t want time off?” I cross my arms defiantly, the bottle-green leather chair creaking with the movement. While it’s a sturdy piece of furniture, it’s clear it wasn’t designed for someone with my large frame, plus it, along with everything else in this glass fishbowl of an office, looks old as fuck. “What if I think being here is what’s best for me?”
“It’s not up for discussion, son. It’s already been decided. You’ll be taking a year-long sabbatical.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to hold back words I know I’d regret later. I’m not his son. But Corbin is the closest thingI’ve had to a father figure since losing my adoptive parents and, while this betrayal cuts deeply, I know his heart is in the right place. It’s hard to hate him when he’s only trying to look out for me.
“If you still want to come back to The Ledger once the year is up, your position will be waiting for you.” I hold back a snort.Of courseI’ll want to come back. While most of my colleagues would jump at the chance for paid time off, I can’t think of anything worse than being left alone with my thoughts for an entire year. Since the incident six months ago, my already pitiful social life has faded into obscurity, and I don’t have any family. This job is my whole life. Ineedit. Corbin’s expression softens to one of fatherly concern. “But if you realise this isn’t the place for you anymore, then there is no pressure for you to return. I can see you’re unhappy with this decision, and, for that, I’m sorry. You’ve been through enough. But I hope you’ll use this time to heal and figure out what it is you want from life moving forward.”
There’s no sense in arguing. I can see the decision etched into every part of him, from the set of his jaw, to the rigid column of his spine, to the determined glint in his dark eyes.
“What am I supposed to do?” I ask, hating how lost I sound, like a scared little boy.
Corbin stands, walking around to my side of the desk to place a firm hand on my shoulder. “Do something that makes you happy. Find joy in something outside of work. Take it from an old man who knows what it’s like to look up and realise you’re all alone. Don’t be like me, Jared. Go out and discover the best version of yourself.”
Not one of my colleagues can meet my eyes when I head back to my desk to gather my things. Clearly they all knew I was getting fired, sorry,put on leave,today. Someone even left a box on my desk for my things. Probably Debbie. In my sevenyears working here, I’ve learned she’s nothing if not ruthlessly practical. Luckily I’m not really one for random clutter on my desk. It only takes a couple of minutes to erase my presence entirely, and the box isn’t even half full. Seven years wiped away in under seven minutes. I look around but my outspoken coworkers are all suspiciously quiet, the rustling of paper, clacking of computer keys, and the distant wail of a siren the only sounds in the open-plan office I usually have to wear noise-cancelling earphones to concentrate in. Lifting the box I chance one final look at Corbin, but he’s pointedly not looking out of the glass walls of his office. That’s it then.
Shame, embarrassment, and simmering anger at the injustice of it all churn in my gut as I head towards the lift. My colleagues were quick to encourage me when my first article on The Raven took off, back before he’d reached serial killer status, before the moniker and his reign of terror. Then, once The Raven rose to infamy, some became jealous when Corbin didn’t hand the coverage off to a more senior reporter. They chuntered about favouritism and, when the murders continued, speculated about when I’d reach burnout.
Then everything changed. I went from being the reporter to being reportedonand now the name Jared Devlin is famous across the country, not because of my bylines, but because I’m the last known victim of The Raven and the only one to survive.
Chapter 2
Jared
Instead of heading straight home I veer right out of the office building in the direction of my gym. I’d already been planning to go after work, a change of clothes ready and waiting in my rucksack. It’s how I’ve spent most evenings since the incident. My life can clearly be separated into before The Raven and after. Before I had no interest in learning how to throw a punch. After I was attacked learning how to defend myself became my top priority. I’d always been more of a runner but as soon as my body was recovered enough I booked an appointment with one of the personal trainers at the gym who specialised in boxing.
I wouldn’t call Paul a friend, but the small talk around our training sessions provides me with some social interaction away from the circling vultures at the office. We don’t have a session scheduled today but I spot him at the front desk when I walk in and nod hello, grateful he’s not the kind of guy to try and stop me for a chat. My thunderous expression and white-knuckle grip on my box of shame might have something to do with it too.
In the changing room I shove the notebooks from the stupid cardboard box into a locker then dump the box in a corner out of the way, uncaring if it’s still here when I’m done working out my frustrations. Tearing open the zip on my rucksack I pull outshorts, a vest top, and trainers, then angrily ball up my discarded office wear and shove it inside the bag.
Headphones in, I stride over to the treadmills to warm up. It takes some effort to force myself to start at a walk and work up to a run. After ten minutes I move over to the punching bags and go through the motions of the warm up stretches Paul taught me that have become as familiar as breathing. I wrap my hands then begin working through a few basic combinations. Eventually I lose myself to the familiar rhythm, no longer imagining the faces of The Ledger staff each time my fists connect with the bag.
As time goes by sweat pours down my body and my breaths saw in and out with the exertion. I keep going. If I stop I’ll have to think about what the hell I’m supposed to do next and I can’t do that right now. If I let myself think about the year yawning out ahead of me like an uncrossable chasm I’m going to lose it. This is better. The familiar burn in my muscles keeps me grounded. Stops me thinking about him. About what happened to me. My fists fly faster. My lungs burn. I press on.
“Hush, don’t try to speak.”The words slither down my spine and I scrunch my eyes closed and push myself to hit harder, like that will block out the memory that accompanies those words,hiswords.
I’m cold. I’m lying on something hard, a table maybe. My eyes won’t open, and I realise there’s something on my face. A blindfold. Panic seeps into my bloodstream and I try to lift my hand to uncover my eyes but I can’t move. Why can’t I move? A distressed noise escapes my chapped lips before I can stop it. That’s when he speaks. The Raven.
“Fuck,” I gasp, snapping back to the present only to realise I’ve hit the bag so hard the bracket attaching it to the ceiling has come loose leaving it hanging at an uneven angle. My hands tug at my blonde hair as I fight the urge to drop to the ground and curl in on myself. Ragged breaths saw in and out of my lungs asI fight to get myself back under control. Leaning forward with my fingers digging into my thighs, I eventually feel my heart-rate slow. Checking my surroundings I notice Paul watching me from across the gym. Great. Not the first time I’ve lost it like this in front of him—but that doesn’t make me feel any better. The panic attacks happened a lot in the months following my encounter with one of England’s most prolific serial killers, but I haven’t slipped into a memory like that for at least two months. I blame Corbin for bringing up ‘my ordeal’ and bringing the whole mess to the forefront of my mind. Not that it’s ever far from my mind, but still.
